


On Trapping the Golden Jackal

by SoyCaptain



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bottom Joker (Persona 5), Canon Compliant, Cunnilingus, Degradation, Dubious Consent, M/M, Metaverse (Persona 5), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Slutkira Awakening, Stuck-In-A-Wall, Top Akechi Goro, Trans Male Character, primal kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29913498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoyCaptain/pseuds/SoyCaptain
Summary: A low rumble erupts from behind, muffled by the vent. It continues building until Joker can discern that it’s a chuckle. They’re laughing at him. Joker should scream, should kick, should plead, anything. But the thrumming ice is hardening in his veins, spreading to his muscles and settling like fallen frost—he couldn’t move if he wanted to.“Well well, what do we have here? A little fox stuck in a rabbit hole?”(The one where the Leader of the Phantom Thieves gets stuck in a vent in Okumura's Palace and a certain Black Masked assassin decides to take advantage.)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist, Black Mask/Joker
Comments: 8
Kudos: 175





	On Trapping the Golden Jackal

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!! 
> 
> !! This work contains sex with a trans male character. The language used (pussy, cunt, hole, clit, cervix) may be triggering or dysphoria-inducing for some individuals. Please keep in mind your comfort and relationship with these words before reading. Thank you!!

_ Eat the rich.  _

Joker didn’t think his proletarian sympathies could become any stronger before he had to power through the sci-fi nightmare of Okumura’s palace. Oppressive, convoluted, and ugly as sin, even after acknowledging his own aesthetic bias. He’s exhausted, but the sooner they can secure a route to the treasure, the sooner he can put the tinny, chromatic sounds of class conflict behind him. 

The Phantom Thieves round a corner and are met with a forking dead end. Exasperated sighing echoes through the group until the familiar glittering awareness behind Joker’s eyes pinpoints an opening in the wall. A ventilation shaft. Well, at least it’s a way forward. 

“Go on ahead.” Joker gestures to the airway. His awareness prickles with the presence of treasure.  _ Somewhere.  _ “There’s a chest down the hall. Let me go grab it while you all start crawling. Save time.” 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Queen challenges. While her level-headedness is welcome, Joker is tired and her distrust is patronizing. He simply nods, a sharp confidence, before waving them off and darting down the hallway. 

“Be right back.”

Despite being several meters away, there’s the distinct sound of banging and cursing echoing through the vent as the thieves bumble single-file. It’s standard fare, but Joker’s momentarily baffled that they’re able to sneak anywhere at all. 

He retrieves the treasure uneventfully (Magic Ointment, almost not worth the trouble) and sprints back to the pseudo dead end. As Joker approaches, he catches the tail end—literally—of Fox disappearing into the hole. He takes a deep breath while he gives Fox enough leeway that they’re not awkwardly close in the vent—he has learned to respect the timing the hard way after getting a faceful of Skull ass. 

Once he’s certain he will not be violating Fox’s personal space, Joker hoists himself into the ventilation shaft. And it’s…

Wow, it’s a tight fit. 

Of course the vents in the cognition of a voracious CEO would be small—this man would go to any means to save a penny—but  _ come on.  _ Joker’s forced into a low belly crawl, elbows lodged in a transition between lateral and forward. He tries to shimmy in at an angle, rotating his hips to dislodge whatever hang up is preventing him from proceeding. (It’s gotta be the coat. Honestly, he’s surprised the physics of his outfit would ever become a hindrance in a cognitive reality). 

He tries to pull himself forward, but the walls of the shaft offer no purchase and his gloves helplessly slide against smooth metal. Having his arms pinned in front and partially beneath him certainly isn’t making it any easier. Maybe he can back out and try again? 

But the surface of the floor is just as slick, failing to provide any traction under his boots. One particularly desperate kick and his legs slip back—balance and weight distribution disrupted and he’s lodged firmly in the vent. 

“Agh, fuck!” Joker cries out. It’s gruffer than intended—nearly a snarl. 

“Joker?! What’s the matter?! Are you okay?” Queen's voice bounces down the ventilation shaft to him. Worried. At least it's not condescending. 

“I’m stuck,” Joker reports, sounding more annoyed than anything. 

“Shit! Hang on, we’ll find a way back around.” Skull this time. Even more worried.

"I'll… Be here."

Their footsteps echo loud and erratic before tapering off and Joker has nothing to do but introspect or attempt escape. The choice is obvious as his wiggling begins anew. Then shimmying turns to struggling which turns to flailing until he settles with a groan, hunkering down and resigning to being a wall ornament for the time being. 

At risk of self-doubt and embarrassment, he goes over the facts of the situation. Can't remove his mask to call his Persona, can't use his dagger. Joker exhales and  _ focuses.  _ Nothing wrong there. He can't see directly behind him, but he should be able to detect shadows. Hopefully, just having his hind end poking out won't alert them. What a humiliating way to die.

… It’s even more humiliating how turned on he is. He chocks it up to teenage hormones (thank you, testosterone) and the usual nature of his sexual fantasies. Ravagement. Power exchange. Et cetera. And God knows he hasn’t been able to regularly jerk off in peace since he gained Morgana as his roommate. He assures himself he’ll rub one out as celebration when he gets home later. Maybe he’ll even use the circumstance as wank fuel when he’s in the safety of the Leblanc bathroom.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck raise, idle fantasies halted. The familiar tickling in his awareness thrums through his blood stream—turning it ice cold in his veins until he’s frozen. A warning. As primal as it is mystical.

_ I can feel it.  _

And then he can hear it. His breathing catches in his throat with the faint clack of footsteps. For a second he entertains a relief that the others have finally arrived, but he’s not that naive. Whoever,  _ whatever _ , this may be is alone. Too quiet on its feet. 

And too deliberate. Joker focuses, and if the wild, frenetic pulsation of his sixth sense wasn’t already telling him that this is  _ too dangerous  _ to be a shadow, he would note the staggering confident cadence of their footfalls. 

A person. 

Louder. And louder. Joker’s surprised he can hear them at all. His heart is beating so furiously against where his chest is pressed to the metal, he swears it’s almost vibrating. The fear quadruples when he remembers he can’t reach his mask to call his Persona. Not that it would do him much good considering he can’t see the target, but being denied even that small measure of security is horrifying. He's totally helpless. 

The footsteps stop, but only because they’ve reached their destination: directly behind him. They’re not touching him, but their presence is so stifling and apparent they might as well be. Combined with how mortified he is from the position… His odds are  _ bad.  _

A low rumble erupts from behind, muffled by the vent. It continues building until Joker can discern that it’s a chuckle. They’re laughing at him. Joker should scream, should kick, should plead,  _ anything.  _ But the thrumming ice is hardening in his veins, spreading to his muscles and settling like fallen frost—he couldn’t move if he wanted to. 

“Well well, what do we have here?  A little fox stuck in a rabbit hole?”

The chuckle tapers into words, but it’s still implied in the cadence. Sneering, low. Masculine. Disturbing in an almost iconic way. And prominently hostile.

Certainly not a friend. 

Understanding wells from deep within his racing, terrified consciousness. The terror alleviates any embarrassment he could feel regarding how long it takes him to connect the dots, but they connect nonetheless. Sparks fly high enough to break through the sheet of ice he's been trapped under.  _ Another Metaverse user. _

“You’re the one with the black mask,” Joker deduces. Another chuckle is all he needs for confirmation.  _ Fuck _ . This is who they’ve been up against! This is the man who killed Wakaba Isshiki. Who’s incredibly dangerous. Who’s standing behind him. If he can keep him here until his team arrives, they can catch him and find out who—

“Aww, bravo. Aren’t you clever?” Black Mask retorts, his mocking exaggerated, obvious. Condescending like one lies to a child. Joker's terror grows a second head: anger—maturing instantly into fury as he feels the man step closer to him. Close enough to feel his warmth radiating; hovering without touching. Joker’s guts twist, wringing pools of rage and heat in his abdomen. 

“Who the hell are you?!” Joker barks, startling himself with how it reverberates in his hollow metal prison. He punctuates his outrage with a blind kick to the body looming over him. It’s his only form of defense, but it’s better than nothing. 

Black Mask reels at the impact and Joker isn’t allowed to process his relief before the man has bounced back into place. Even closer. The sarcastic laughter begins again, echoing until it morphs into a wild, malicious cackle. Joker readies another kick that’s halted by a gasp wedged in his diaphragm—as Black Mask bridges the gap between them and digs his hands into Joker’s hips. Hard.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Joker growls. Thrashing, the leader of the Phantom Thieves fights against the grip, against the pressing weight. Black Mask is strong though, and Joker is reduced to little more than squirming and growling at the man. 

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands here,” the Black Mask coos. The muffled velvet juxtaposed to the vice on his hips churns an uncanniness in Joker’s stomach. He’s totally at the mercy of some murderer. 

And he is painfully, devastatingly horny about it. Why  _ the fuck  _ is he horny? Why is the whole situation so goddamn arousing? Is there a sick part of him that wants the man to take advantage of him? Did he wish for this to happen with his idle musings? It's too much to parse. His pussy throbs and his racing thoughts intermix disgust and arousal into a witches’ brew—a roiling guilt. All he can do is lay there and pray for the bastard to get over with whatever he intends for him. 

“What an incredible ass, though,” Black Mask says, as if reading Joker’s mind. He presses more of himself against Joker to prevent any thrashing before loosening his grip and trailing his hands down. The voice is  _ so familiar _ , but when Joker tries to nail down the source of nostalgia, nothing matches the sleek lukewarm jeer of it. 

The Black Mask touches him firmly but without violence. Hands sliding up and down Joker's back, hips, before sinking into the plush of his ass. There's a twitch of his hips and Joker’s not sure whether it’s a flinch or an arch into the touch. He just knows he hates himself. 

“There, that’s a good boy,” the man praises him and Joker can hear the smirk on his lips. His tone has shifted from sneering to sultry—to open lust. Joker seethes. He hates this so much. He hates this man for violating him while he's vulnerable, for using the Metaverse to commit crimes, for talking to him like he’s an animal… 

But it's undeniable that his body is reacting, that he can feel how wet he is as the Black Mask gropes his ass--manipulates the soft flesh and spreads him over and over. His lips slide together with every pull, creating enough friction to make him ache but not enough to get him off. Joker spreads his legs, telling himself it’s to decrease the rubbing so he can focus on fighting back and not an act of granting access to his aching sensitive parts. 

His assailant doesn’t buy it. The man hums—Joker doesn’t hear it so much as feel it—clearly pleased with the perceived permission. He pulls the cheeks together once more before trailing his thumbs down the cleft between them. Joker can’t help the shudder that travels down his legs or the whine that escapes him when the thumbs brush over not one but both of his holes in their descent. They twitch in tandem, lamenting the too-brief contact, practically begging to be fondled. 

_ Fuck _ , he hates this. He hates this so much. He hates that he conspicuously arches his back as Black Mask cups his cheeks from the bottom, caresses the softest part of his thighs, traces the outline of his lips. Hates how he whines when the hands retreat to his waist. How he’s flustered by the raw excitement ricocheting through his neural network as Black Mask presses his groin against his—heavy, hot and undeniably erect. Horrified when he finds himself involuntarily grinding back, the man’s cock nestled between his cheeks. 

Inside him, there's a pendulum swinging wildly between abhorrence and lust. Wobbling, bewildering, and it threatens to make him sick. Joker squeezes his eyes shut to ground himself against the sickness. This is all his fault. He only ever has himself to blame. Wetness gathers behind his eyelids and when he opens his eyes to defy it, the swinging captivates him like a hypnotist. Urging him to let go and listen to nature's intentions. It offers him warmth against cold steel.

“I always knew you were a slut, Joker,” Black Mask taunts, adding injury to insult by pressing his fingers firmly into the space below Joker’s rib cage. They’re sharp, almost clawlike, as they dig into the flesh. Joker can’t give it much mind with the heat emanating from his core and enveloping all but the farthest reaches of his body. The pain gets lost in the fog. Encroaching madness. 

He swears he can feel the shape of his assailant’s cock as he grinds. Joker finds that he spread his legs even farther—when did he do that? The cock has easier access to his pussy now and Joker perfectly arches into the shape of it, mewling as it finally gives some friction to his aching clit. 

Wait, he called him Joker?! He knows him? Oh, that isn’t good. 

His nipples are so hard he can tell where they’re trapped in his shirt. Joker wiggles until he can feel them pressed firmly against his metal prison. Why is he doing this? Why is he letting this happen? Why is every fiber and nerve unionizing to tell him that he wants it? As tears drip down Joker's face, his pussy drips down his thighs inside the loose fabric of his pants.

It’s like the Black Mask is reading his mind again-- _ is that part of his power? _ His groin absently continues humping while his clawed fingers start their descent to the buttons of Joker’s pants. Joker knows he should be terrified, should be horrified and fighting, but he's weak to the thrill that sizzles beneath his skin. To the relief of more contact. To how desperately he wants stimulation, no matter the form. A pathetic, slutty Tantalus. 

Immediately, goosebumps speckle his skin from the chill of exposure. The cool breeze ghosts his burning, drenched cunt and he shivers. It reaches his thighs--which stick together when he adjusts his legs-- and his engorged clit peeking from between his lips. When the goosebumps start to settle, Black Mask summons more by trailing his claws over the skin.

“I know you want this. God, look at you… Look how fucking  _ wet  _ you are," Black Mask states the obvious, a tinge of admiration in his voice. All Joker can muster is a low whine. 

Hands on his cheeks once more, Black Mask spreads Joker open. It's mortifying to have someone looking directly at his most intimate parts, yet his pussy clenches hard enough that slick oozes and drips toward the floor. Black Mask's gloves are lined with a cold metal that's stark against his burning flesh. The steel-encased digits prod at Joker, pulling him this way and that, as his assailant examines his sex. 

“Pretty. Hmm, your friends are idiots. I think we have a little time to play,” the masked man says with a jesting, sadistic sort of finality. His hands leave Joker's flesh and Joker stifles his grief at the loss, corralling his focus on the way this man insulted his friends like he  _ knows them _ . Joker wants to protest or question or  _ anything _ other than whimper like a bitch in heat, but a clanging of metal--and a voice at a new angle-- interrupts him:

“Horny little thing, aren’t you?” 

Warm, taunting breath across his pussy. Must have removed his mask. Oh, no. Is this murderer really about to go down on him? Why not just fuck him and get it over with? He’s plenty wet, why does his assailant have to make him  _ want?  _ At this point, Joker would vastly prefer violence over a slow, aching build up that messes with his head. 

“Ngh—! Ah,” Joker gasps when he feels the tip of Black Mask’s tongue connect with his clit—gentle. He flicks at it a second, third, fourth time until Joker’s hips twitch for more. Black Mask obliges as he runs his tongue down the length of Joker’s slit before sliding it into Joker's weeping hole and tongue fucking him. Disgusting and slimy, but Joker wants so much more once he finally gets something in his hole. His groin burns deep down with yearning, aching to be filled. Aching to be used. 

His assailant retracts his tongue before finally focusing on the swollen, quivering clit in front of him. Slow, deliberate circles. Hands fastened to the soft part of Jokers thighs, both to anchor and to keep his legs open. Not that Joker would be closing them. It’s almost affectionate the way the man laps at his clit and Joker finds himself rolling his hips to meet each lick.

The licks slow and Joker releases a clipped whine before lips replace tongue. They kiss at his folds and thighs, sucking slightly, leaving hickies until they greet his clit. A final kiss and the lips wrap around him. Joker groans deeply at the sensation of his entire clit being engulfed. The man’s mouth is so hot, Joker wants to sink and fuck into it. 

He starts sucking and the sound in Joker’s throat is more akin to an animal than a human. Bobbing his head and tongue back and forth and he suckles Joker’s erect clit. A stranger is going down on him and it’s… Amazing, actually. Joker moans, bucking and eager to get more of his aching flesh in the mouth. He doesn’t care anymore—a blistering haze overlaying his mental faculties. The throbbing in his clit is the only pulse he needs. He doesn’t care who or what this is. It could be the devil himself but Joker doesn’t care as long as he keeps eating him out. 

Shamelessly whining and rutting his swollen, throbbing clit past the other man’s lips over and over. Black Mask kneads into Joker's ass as he works, encouraging him to fuck into his mouth. Hips erratic. He’s getting so so close and the Black Mask can tell as he chuckles against Joker's pussy. Joker could easily move away and kick him but it feels so good… Guilt tinges the pleasure, but refuses to override it. 

Close. So so  _ so _ close. Joker moans openly as this skilled mouth works him over and pleasures his cunt--Black Mask sucks harder--the sounds sloppy and wet and obvious. Runs his tongue across the sensitive underside of Joker’s clit and relishes the shivers it grants him. Darting his tongue to lap up the honey gathering at Joker’s twitching hole. Joker's own breath chokes him. The walls of the vent shrink and grow and black at the edges as wanton hunger bliss washes over him and fills him right to the threshold of bliss--

Then, Black Mask stops. Joker pants and whines and bucks his hips in frustration. Black Mask smacks his ass and he both moans and yelps, arching his back, making himself available for use. His legs tremble with arousal and if the vent wasn’t holding him in place, surely his knees would buckle. 

He's become an animal in heat. This is the man behind the psychotic breakdowns. And Joker can understand why—he feels like he’s going crazy. Time is crawling, strobing with the pressure in his groin. 

Segmented by a rustling of clothing and jingling of belts. Joker gasps when burning, throbbing flesh sits directly flush against his pussy. They grind for a few seconds, sliding against each other, aided by Joker’s wetness. Creating slick sounds loud and audible through both the vent and the pulse ringing his ears. 

In Joker's mind there's a voice that screams for him to get a grip--to fight--but it's muted and lost to the miasma of lust that creeps into the every cranny of his consciousness. Objectively terrified, he knows it’s the point of no return, knows he's about to be violated by this man whether he wants it or not… 

But  _ fuck _ does he want it. He's rarely allowed to want anything. Greedy, his hole actively aches for something to clench down on. His breath catches in his throat every time the head of Black Mask's cock slips against his entrance, automatically adjusting to accommodate it. 

“I want you to beg for it. Beg for me to fuck you. Beg for me to treat you like the whore you are,” Black Mask snarls above a whisper. Pointed, sultry, and unhinged. Confident. He doesn’t relent grinding against Joker’s cunt, spreading his lips open and slowly frotting against his hard clit, dragging it up and down with deliberation. 

Finally, a ray of defiance manages to cut through the horny fog in Joker’s mind. It reminds him he's proud. He’s not one to let anyone tell him what to do. But he’s so fucking horny. The inferno raging inside and stifles his ability to think. All the shame, all the guilt, just kindling. Combined with the miasma, it makes a noxious gas that suffocates his superego. He needs it so bad. No longer a want but a need. He  _ needs _ to be fucked.

“Fuck me. I-I want you to fuck me,” Joker finally admits, telling himself it’s because _ he wants it he needs it,  _ not because some insane stranger told him to.. It’s weaker than he intended and he’s not sure his assailant heard it until the man’s idle rubbing stops and nestles his glans against Joker’s hot hole. So close. 

“Again. Beg, slut.” Hoarse, breathy, urgent. The Black Mask is a human--an animal--too.

“Please. I can’t take it. Just fuck me already.” The inelegant transparency. Vulnerable. 

“Pathetic. That’s so hot.” A laugh saturated with arousal. Black Mask is so pleased with himself. Joker promises to care and be mortified later--for now, he only cares about getting a cock inside of him. 

The head presses against his entrance, right at the precipice. He’s about to be violated, deflowered. He’s about to have his virginity taken from him by a murderer.  _ And he wants it.  _ In a final, desperate impulse, Joker takes control of his own fate. With a calculated gyration of his hips, Joker spears himself against the man and the searing tip of the Black Mask slips inside. 

And it  _ burns _ . It  _ hurts. _ Even with all of the preparation. But the pain is almost indistinguishable from pleasure and Joker can’t help wailing as he's wrenched open. Bucking and shuddering as his dripping, horny pussy enthusiastically engulfs the criminal's cock. Wanting more. He’s sure he hears Black Mask groan in pleasure but he can’t be certain with his own sounds ricocheting against the metal walls and distorting any sound from the outside. 

It’s so much. He’s never been so full—the biggest thing he’s ever put inside him was a hairbrush handle. And with the sting and the stretch Joker can tell this man's girth is at least double that. Even spreading his legs as far as they’ll go at the angle, it’s a tight fit. 

It’s… Intoxicating. His first taste of dick. Warmer than he imagined. 

The Black Mask kneads Joker’s asscheeks as he adjusts to being enveloped, lowers his hips and pushes his thick cock as far as it’ll go. Then gripping for leverage to push a little farther until his pubic bone presses against Joker’s ass—sheathed fully inside. Joker squeals--animalistic, insane-- as Black Mask’s dick molds his cunt to its shape and nestles directly against his cervix. As the man touches parts deep inside of him he didn’t know yearned to be touched. 

“Ha, just what I expected from you, Joker.” 

So full. His cunt spasms helplessly around the welcomed intrusion. He’s being forced open by a stranger’s cock. Any remaining guilt gets swirled into the boiling concoction of emotions inside of him, processed only as a facet of the primal burning in his pelvis. 

_ Fuck _ , he’s going to come. Black Mask's cock is pressed firmly to the walls of Joker's pussy, massaging them with his length whenever his hips pitch forward--coaxing it out. Joker's going to come and he’s helpless to stop it. Orgasm hurdles towards him like a rampaging bull. Fast and hard and destructive. Wild ecstasy. 

The sounds ripping from his throat tangle with his breaths and he chokes, vision washing out. Wave after wave of blissfully empty euphoria rocks through him, hips bucking and trembling as orgasm overtakes him. As he completely surrenders to his body, to Nature, to the enemy.

His pussy seizes the cock inside of him, clenching hard enough to stop the man’s thrusts—hard enough to feel the shape with each wave of spasms. Black Mask counters the squeeze with his own strength, pushing his hips firm to keep his cock from slipping out, letting the Thief’s throbbing cunt milk him. 

“Ah, you’re cumming? Good fucking boy. That’s it," the Black Mask encourages him with a growl. Kneads his fingers where they're locked to Joker's hips, almost as if he's petting him. He leans over Joker as he starts to pick up the pace again. Cooing, needy, his voice sounds closer. “Cum on my cock, Joker. You're so fucking tight.”

Black Mask smacks his ass and moans when Joker tightens around him in response. Balls slap against his clit as the man ruts into him roughly, his glans dragging against Joker's g-spot with each thrust. He hears how wet he is, the squelching obvious even as his moaning echoes lewdly through the vent. The metal under his face is slick from drool, sweat, and tears--no longer cold but humid. Black Mask is holding him down, bruising his hips, and fucking into him mercilessly—growling and cursing as he uses Joker’s hole to pleasure himself. 

The smell of their sex wafts through the vent. Joker's not sure how much time has elapsed since their session began, all he knows is the violent, seismic pleasure coursing through him. He should want it to stop--maybe cry and plead and tell him no--but Joker thinks he might die if the piston in his cunt were to stop now. Even after the first mind-destroying climax, he's not satisfied, eager for more. 

Joker discovers he was created to take cock, to be bred, to be used. And the Black Mask knows it too. 

“Nothing but a fucktoy. Little cumdump. Do you want my cum, you nasty bitch? Do you want me to fill this needy cunt?” Erratic, desperate. No snark left as he rambles and succumbs to the heat. 

Joker finds himself acquiesing, begging, chanting for the Black Mask to keep fucking him. With a deep groan, he speeds up, holding Joker's legs up for him until his toes no longer touch the ground. Joker sees another peak on the horizon as his body--his hole--is used viciously. He loves it. God, he loves it. 

A strangled, angry cry erupts from behind him as the hammering slows. Joker's cunt grips so tight he swears he can feel Black Mask's cock pulse and shoot his cum inside of him. Deep, tight warmth filling him, flush with his cervix. Joker's at the peak and toppling over as they cum in tandem--the orgasm accompanied by a surge of wetness and Joker ejaculates for the first time in his life. 

"Fuck! Ren--!"

And for some reason, an image of Goro Akechi flashes through Joker's mind as he cums for a second, final time. 

...

Relief, release of pressure, like clearing the room of smoke. Finally. Joker's not sure when he comes to, but the Black Mask is gone. And so is the cock that was filling him, punctuating his relief with an emptiness. Joker's cunt spasms once more for good measure and a deluge of cum dribbles down his legs before plopping unceremoniously onto the floor. It's way more disgusting now that he's no longer in the moment, but surprisingly, there's no anger. There's just… A sense of inappropriate serenity. 

He jostles, and finds that the sweat and heat from their  _ rendezvous _ expanded the metal of the vent enough for Joker to slink out and onto the floor. Joining the puddle of cum and adding to it. He blearily looks around--eyes struggling to adjust to normal lighting--but there's no sign that the Black Mask had ever been there. 

It's not like he could investigate closely, though. The tickling of his intuition and keen hearing tell him that his friends are closeby. Joker scrambles to pull his pants up--nearly slipping from the mess-- and button them. He tries to wipe away the cum with the inside of his jacket, but some still remains. It smells… Awful, but hopefully his friends won't ask too many questions. He'll just tell them he spilled something and that's how he managed to escape. With a sniffle or two and a twist of his mask, he manages to right himself just in time to see them bounding down the corridor towards him.

He smirks as they see him, able to separate himself from whatever just happened, slipping back into the role of Leader. A cocky facade. Did they really think there was anything the Leader of the Phantom Thieves of Heart couldn't do? Of course not, and they won't know about the cum helplessly sliding down his legs and pooling in his boots either. Per usual, Joker is a paragon quietly haunted by ghosts. 

As they get back into the groove of the Palace, Joker makes a mental note to text Akechi later. Because it seems like Goro Akechi might have ghosts in his own attic. Maybe not, but it's a  _ feeling _ he has. 

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to @Skyler_Slapdash and @SadMoreLikeRad on Twitter for beta reading!


End file.
